I thought to steal you from
the earth; what is the subtraction
of one dead bird? There is always
a cross and I have some nails.
I was a prophet then. Is there
any reason to not look back?
Tumbleweeds punch through
any crack until their fists
break free, but that isn’t a song.
Have you heard the wind rising
through octaves? Single pane aluminum
boned windows shuddering;
keeping the static turned high.
I have screamed your name
into the faces of foreclosed houses.
Dead deer cross streets, the light
is predatory and obvious. Broken sheet
rock loosening. There are fingerprints
fiercely pushing back against
signal degradation. The remnants fail.
I hope you find me.
.
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